I'll Be Here Wondering
by Battery Bug
Summary: "Dean knows he should have known better. Actually, fuck that, Dean knows better. But he fails at everything else, so why the hell not?" Dean goes hunting alone, 'cause something's up with Sam and something's up with Cas, and Dean's just not a happy camper. Set early season 6. Dean & Cas friendship fic (but you could wear your pre-Destiel glasses, if you wanted...)
**A/N:** For **deadone1013** , in return for a brilliant comment which gave me an idea and made me rewrite a (nearly finished, 10k+) fic. Yay!

 **Prompt:** "Cas  & Dean friendship fic, set in the beginning of season 6. Dean is hurt during a solo demon hunt and pray for help. Cas shows up, kills the demons (featuring some smiting would be great), and heals his wounds."

Possibly I ended up with a little more focus on Dean getting (himself) hurt and a little less on Cas being awesome. Oops? (Also, 1000-2000 words? Not happening.)

Hope you like it!

* * *

Dean knows he should have known better. Actually, fuck that, Dean _knows_ better. But he fails at everything else, so why the hell not?

He's not kidding anyone, after all. No matter how stubbornly he went through the motions with Lisa, no matter how saintly her patience with him was, he still never quite got it to work. He never quite settled into the sheer _routine_ of everyday life.

He's got his brother back. It's everything he has wished for, begged for, and _prayed_ for, for a year. And yet, something is wrong. It doesn't take a Dean-level knowledge of Sam to tell. He got his brother back, and a spiteful little voice in the back of his mind keeps singing, _careful what you wish for, careful what you wish for, careful what you wish for_. On a never-ending loop.

The last time he got Sam back against all odds, it cost Dean his soul. Payment due: one year. He wonders what the price is this time. And when they'll have to pay up.

And then there is Cas. Who fluttered off, newly revived and apparently returned more or less reset to factory settings. It makes Dean want to scream. He pretty much preferred his friend when he was _falling_ and wasting away slowly. _That_ makes Dean want to scream.

How is it that his life was better (no, not better, but definitely more manageable) back when the world was ending? Does he actually _long_ for those days?

(No, he doesn't ( _careful what you wish for, careful what you wish for, careful what you wish for_ ), he _doesn't!_ )

Fuck it all.

One solution to all those problems is not dealing with them at all, of course. Which, he reckons might or might _not_ be an actual possibility (there is, after all, the whole clusterfuck of afterlife in Heaven or Hell, and at this point he is not sure which destination is actually less attractive, and holy fuck, did Dean mention his life is messed up?). But the whole dealing by not dealing-thing?

Dean's not prone to suicide. Getting himself killed though, well. He's doing a pretty bang-up job of that right now.

It's Sam's fault, really. Or, not Sam, but that looming wrongness, that something which is off, the haunting feeling that he still hasn't gotten the total of the price paid.

Dean can barely stand to be in room with his brother now. And that is after spending a _year_ barely able to be _anywhere_ , because everywhere was without him. But something's wrong, something's _wrong_ , and Dean needed to get out before it all blew up.

Hunting those demons seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time.

He has the knife, and thank God (or Ruby, actually, and isn't that a disturbing thought?) for that. But he is also hurt, lost and outnumbered to a degree which is ridiculous.

He actually staked out the old condemned hotel, before he went in. He is not _that_ stupid, thank you very much (except for when he is, but never mind that). Over a good 36 hours, although with some sleeping on Dean's part, he saw three demons come and go. And okay, three demons, that seemed likely enough. Apart from some really shitty situations, demons tend to stick in small groups or stay entirely solitary.

Maybe, just maybe, Dean ought to have conceded that three demons was a bit much for him to take on alone. Would have saved him some pain.

'Cause (and why the fuck does these kind of things still surprise him?), this turned out to be just one of those "really shitty situations".

Dean's hiding in an old, dilapidated linen-closet on the fourth floor, for all the good it'll do him. He was actually on the fifth floor until he suddenly wasn't, and his useless leg and the not inconsiderable amount of blood forced him to hide rather than run. The bright side of falling through the floor is that he was making his way down already. The slightly murky side, well, that would be the whole forced hiding-instead-of-running-thing.

There is a reason he was trying to get to the ground floor, after all. He needs to get the fuck out. Because there are not three demons in the building. More like a dozen.

That he has _seen_.

Dean curses almost silently to himself. He is not that worried about being heard. Not because he is convinced that he can face anything that comes through the door (because he really isn't), but because whatever monster that ends up on this floor is going to spot the trail of blood he left behind long before it is close enough to hear him anyway.

He is bleeding profusely from a gash on the forehead. (Head wounds are always a bitch; it's not that deep and he doesn't have a concussion. Probably.) To that comes several shallow cuts all over his torso and on the undersides of his arms (from where he was frantically scrabbling for something, anything, to hold on to after his lower body went through what he thought was solid floor), which luckily _aren't_ that serious. And lastly there is his now fairly useless leg. Which is not broken, small mercies (really, fucking tiny mercy that, actually), but a bloody mess, nonetheless. In a very literal sense.

Because Dean's not the kind of guy whose luck has him falling through floors. No, he's the blessed kind of soul who also happen to land on a stupid ornamental side table with a stupid old vase on it. Both of which decide to celebrate his dropping in by splintering. _Completely_. His left leg is more or less torn to shreds; at this point he thinks it is actually likely that there are more wood splinters and glass shards than blood in his limb. His right leg has its share of cuts, as well, but it is nothing compared to the other, so he mostly ignores it.

The good thing about his hiding place are the old linens which are easily torn and make quite convenient makeshift bandages. With a pieces of what might have been a drawer in the old table, he even manages to make a half decent tourniquet.

Dean staggers back on his feet. He can't stay where he is; he has all but painted blood red arrows pointing at his hiding place down the hallway.

Tentatively trying to put weight on his injured leg, he flat out whimpers. Then he snorts derisively at himself.

His leg is not broken (well, _the bone_ of his leg is not broken), but it seems he has a sprained ankle to go with the rest. Fucking cherry.

Turning the corner and stumbling towards the stairs, one floor lower than he started out, and with a much more intimate relationship with the wall this time, Dean tries to take stock of his options.

He has to get out of the building without getting caught, or he is dead. He has to get his injuries treated properly, or he is dead. He probably even need a bloody (ha ha) blood transfusion, or he'll be fucked.

He needs to stop, or he is going to pass out from dizziness.

Okay, so, blood loss, concussion after all, and a shitload of demons (that, holy fuck, might have caught the scent of his blood by now?) – how exactly is he going to get himself out of this particular pinch?

He isn't. He should probably call Sam for help. But who knows where Sam even is right now; Dean's been gone for over 48 hours. Also, he doesn't even know if his phone survived the fall.

Huh, maybe he should check that.

Dean fumbles the phone out of his pocket. The top half of the screen is splintered, but it flickers on reluctantly when he prompts it. He can barely see enough to punch in his code, but across the bottom of the screen two words are still readable: emergency call.

From around the corner back the way he came comes a cruel sound that Dean recognises a excitement, demon-style.

Dean lets out another choked sound, and this time it is closer to a sob. Call the authorities? Like that would fucking help. It's too late. No one can help him.

The walls sway around him, and Dean grits his teeth. He can't fucking _think_. The sound of the approaching demons is still faint. They are not in a hurry. Or maybe they don't realise how close Dean actually is; he isn't exactly moving enough for them to hear him. Just sort of swaying.

He grits his teeth a little harder.

 _Do something!_ a part of his brain demands, and he manages to punch his code into the phone, almost impressed with himself for being able to remember it at this point. He gets his contacts open. The demons round the corner.

Later, Dean will decide that it is the absolute lack of conscious thought when faced with life-death situations which saves his life in those first seconds.

There are three demons in the group regarding him, and they launch themselves at him simultaneously. He tries to shift his weight, looses his footing and effectively (though unintentionally) dodges the first two. The third lands on him, and he buries the knife in its throats on reflex.

Dean didn't even realise that he still had the knife in his hand. The phone has gone flying, he realises.

Unable to get up, he doesn't get lucky a second time. The two remaining demons don't seem too keen on getting within range of the knife and his instinctive reflexes. And why should they?

One of the demons mentally throws Dean clean across the hallway. He connects painfully with the wall, but the demon doesn't even bother holding him against it. Then Dean goes flying again. And again.

Only the pain is keeping him conscious and it isn't doing much for his ability to think. He realises he has lost his grip on the knife. He realises more demons have joined the party. He realises he is already dead and now they are just toying with him. Leisurely, slowly, painfully.

He realises he has landed right next to his phone.

He stares at it, unable to even try to rise. He is surrounded by demons, their laughter a distant echo almost drowned out by static. Dean doesn't know if the display is more battered than it was after the fall, or if it is the blood flowing freely into his eyes now, which makes the screen almost impossible to read. It is open on a contact. If he could just press call... But who is Dean kidding? He can't even read the name on the screen, let alone move enough to reach for the phone.

The two become interconnected in his failing brain.

He just have to read that name. Just have to...

C-A-S...

There is more, but it is enough. He knows that name. And oh, Dean is a fool.

The demons, apparently bored with laughing at him now, send him flying again. But it is okay; the split second of weightlessness allows Dean to get just enough air into his lungs that, when he collides with another abandoned piece of furniture, he can turn the hiss into a word, a plea. " _Cas_."

A prayer.

Dean doesn't hear the shift of the air as Castiel appears in front of him, nor the startled gasps and cries of the surrounding demons. He doesn't see the sharp shock or the burning wrath on the angel's face. He doesn't understand the words, doesn't even realise that they _are_ words, when the angel growls for him to close his eyes. It doesn't matter, though. He eyes are already closed and his mind is going blank.

Then everything goes ( _bright!_ ) black.

#

Dean wakes up on an old, sodden carpet. The first thing he registers is the smell. It's a mix, but one scent is more pervasive than anything else. Damn his hunting-life; he identifies the liquid ruining the carpet. It is literally soaked in blood.

Next, before the concern (panic) that ought to follow that realisation, comes sensation. Dean feels no pain. And a part of his brain insists that he should given the amount of blood around him. Dean always ends up bleeding. He knows very well. But there is nothing. Nothing but a light pressure on his forehead.

Dean blinks his eyes open. Castiel is crouching over him, two fingers extended. There's an emotion in the depth of the angel's eyes even harder to identify than normally. But Dean doesn't quite feel up to an extended staring match and trying to decipher it right now. He groans.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean sits up, and Castiel makes a protesting noise, but too late. The feeling returns to Dean's body (and with it the memory of what happened), and whereas he is in a lot less pain that he should have been, his leg is still a mess and it feels accordingly. Dean's not unaccustomed to pain, though, and that is not what holds his attention.

Around him is carnage. He recognises the other smells now: ozone, sulphur and burnt flesh. The ozone is, oddly, most pervasive now that his face is no longer pressed into the blood-soaked carpet. That is in spite of the ten exorcised demons around them, whose sulphurous smell probably ought to have been more marked. And the ten completely crisped bodies whose stench definitely should have been.

Dean has seen the burned eye sockets of those (demons _and_ humans) who crosses an angel. But Castiel hasn't just burned the demons inside their vessels; he has burned the vessels with them. Never mind the bloody eyes.

Dean makes a sound.

"You shouldn't move. Removing the debris in your wounds without damaging you further will take a little while."

Dean blinks and turns to look at the angel. Castiel's eyes are on his leg, hands hovering uncertainly a little from him.

"Do you need to, like, touch me?" Dean's voice is surprisingly unscratchy, even if his brain is still catching up. But going on how he feels, Cas has restored the blood he lost and with it probably his body's natural fluid balance.

"Yes," he replies and seems to takes this as permission, placing one hand on Dean's arm and folding the other gently around his thigh.

Dean watches as small pieces of red-stained glass and wooden splinters emerge slowly, almost gently, from his torn shin. Dean's not squeamish, but it makes him nauseous.

"Can't you do it... faster? Like, I dunno, a band aid?"

The question earns him a head tilt, and Dean can't help smiling a little. Behind Cas he can just see the burnt husk of a corpse. "Not without hurting you, no. I need to follow the missiles' trajectory accurately and reverse the pressure originally created to allow for a smooth passage where your flesh has returned to its proper position."

Dean's not squeamish. But. "Seriously, though. Can't you just... Tear it out and heal it over afterwards? Wouldn't be anything worse than how my other leg looked, and it seems you've done fine with that."

Castiel pauses his healing. Apparently what he is doing _is_ taking quite some concentration. "Yes, but that would hurt you. I _can_ do this, so why would I do anything that could cause you pain?"

"Because I would prefer it?"

Castiel makes an unhappy sound in the back of his throat, which makes Dean raise his eyebrows in surprise. "But—"

"Seriously, Cas. It would be faster, right?" Dean looks around him again, this time with the cold look of a Hunter. What is another couple of bodies or ten? "There are more demons here."

"No. There are not."

"I counted at least twelve. If the last two come looking, or however many there are—"

"There are no demons left in the building, Dean. Or in quite a vicinity around it, probably."

Dean stares at the angel. If he didn't know better he would say Castiel looks almost... embarrassed.

"Are you sure?"

Castiel's hand on Dean's leg spasms slightly. He looks at the absolutely decimated demons around them, "Quite."

"Cas, what happened here?" When the angel doesn't immediately answer, Dean leans into the hand on his arm with a nudge. Cas looks almost surprised as he catches Dean's eyes, and for a long moment they just stare at each other.

That thing is still there in the depths of the blue, and Dean has to wonder if it is thankful relief or barely dormant fear.

"Why didn't you call me sooner?"

Dean gnaws on his lip, "You're busy. With the war and whatnot."

"You could have gotten killed." The hands on Dean tighten almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, Cas, I know," Dean sighs and looks down, "I don't know why, okay. By the time I realised I needed help I wasn't exactly thinking straight." Dean looks up only to find Castiel glaring at his injured leg as though it offends him.

A very small part of Dean realises that it just might.

"Even then," the angel replies then mutters under his breath, " _Especially_ then."

"Cas, I wasn't thinking. I was going to call Sam. Whom I don't know where is, and who doesn't know where I am. Not thinking."

"No, you weren't, and your instinctive reaction is to think of _Sam_. It should be _me_!"

Castiel rarely raises his voice, and yet the volume barely even registers with Dean over the words. He stares at the angel, wide-eyed.

"I can help, Dean," Castiel continues more calmly, but still not looking up. "I can always help. I _will_ always help." He finally meets Dean's eyes. "I wish I could condition you to think of me first. Not because I want to usurp Sam's place in any manner or sense. But because it would make sense in keeping you safe. _Both_ of you."

(Dean wonders if that add-on was intended from the beginning. … Moving on.)

Dean nods slowly, not so much in agreement as in acquiescence of the point. "You sure that there're no more, uh, live demons around, yeah?" Cas nods. "How?"

The angel sighs, and gives one of his not quite there-smiles. "I might have... overreacted a little."

"Overreacted? But why?"

"You heart was barely beating when I got here, Dean."

Dean swallows audibly, "Oh."

It's not his brush with death that unnerves Dean so much as Castiel's reaction. Yet, at the same time it warms him, and he hates himself a little for it.

"So..." he starts, before shaking his head and continuing more decisively, "We should get out of here. Think you could finish this off? Band aid-style?"

Cas looks at him for another of their long moments (which Dean vaguely realises _are_ longer than other people's long moments, but hey, angel – it takes time to decipher the guy's thoughts!), before moving both hands so one is on Dean's ankle, the other where its partner previously sat on Dean's thigh. "Are you sure? It will hurt."

"Just do—" Dean barely manages to choke his scream as his leg is torn apart by a myriad of sharp shrapnel (again). Then the pain is gone, and the next instance so are the wounds and the blood. "—it."

Castiel doesn't do smirks, but if he did. Yeah, that might be it.

The angel stands and offers the hunter his hand. Dean takes it and lets Castiel haul him to his feet. The angel doesn't even shift his balance and suddenly Dean has to fight the urge to scowl. He is not a little man, and Cas is treating him like he has all the impact of a toddler. Or a rag doll.

"Thanks," he huffs instead, keeping the scowl to himself. Castiel gives him another stare.

"You are welcome."

And they both know they're talking about more than a hand to help him back on his feet.

#

On their way out they walk past several more empty vessels, demons very dead and very gone.

It's not till they reach the ground floor that it starts being only the vessels' eye sockets that are burned out.

Castiel leaves Dean by the Impala. None of them comment on the level of destruction Castiel is able to wreck on demons. Dean knows what angels can do, even if he tends to forget that his friend is a celestial bad-ass. He knows exactly what Castiel is capable of.

Dean knew the angel before he rebelled (for him), knew his powers when they were still at their peak, and knew his limitations. He knew.

And now he wonders.

* * *

Title from My Chemical Romance's "Dead!"


End file.
